by Ann Jacobus
“It’s okay, Mom.” She’s being a little dramatic and making it about her. But it’s a start.
“I’m trying to be better.”
“I know. You haven’t left here for ages. For goodness sakes, take a trip,” Summer kids.
Mom’s face lights up, pleased Summer has noticed. “And I’m really proud of you. How well you’ve done these last months.”
The compliment lands gently on Summer’s shoulder like a yellow songbird. “Thank you.” It’s funny, though, that Mom will still never utter the word “suicide.”
“I have to say, proud also that you’ve managed to keep that weight off.” Mom spears greens.
Summer just nods. “Yeppers.” She takes a sip of sparkling water. “Mom, I know it might seem like running away or escaping, but Paris is very hard for me.”
“Harder now?” asks Mom.
“It’s always been hard and still is,” Summer says evenly. “I was thinking that I’d like to go back to the US as soon as it’s okay. I think I can make better progress there—”
Mom’s pale eyes open wide. “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all!”
“Okay,” Summer says, despite heavy disappointment. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I did discuss it with Dr. Garnier, but you’d have to be on board.”
Mom’s face droops into wrinkles. She puts her fork down. “Why? Why is it so hard here?”
Mom thinks it’s about her. And it is a little bit. But it’s way more than that. “Because every building, every tourist landmark, every bus and Métro, and every freaking cobblestone, remind me of what I did. To Moony. To myself. To you.”
Silence settles over the table. Mom takes another bite of salad and frowns in thought. “Where would you go then?”
“I’m thinking San Francisco, where I could stay with Aunt Liz for a while.”
Now Mom looks sad. “I know she’d like that. Have you talked to her?”
“No. I wanted to ask you about it first.” It would be better for them both. Later she and Mom can carve out a way to coexist.
“What about school? And university? And the will?” Mom demands. “Are we just going to give up? I wasn’t going to bring it up yet, but you’re kind of forcing the issue.”
Summer chews the inside of her cheek and reminds herself that Mom has every right to be worried about her inheritance, even if she’s not. “No. I’m not giving up. I don’t know what I’ll do about that. Anyway, I won’t be twenty-two for years, and I’ve got bigger chickens to fry right now.”
Mom’s mouth twitches. “I know.”
Summer says, “I appreciate your watching out for me about that, Mom. Really. But you want something for me that I don’t.”
“I want you to have the option. Not to throw it away, for heaven’s sake.”
“I understand. Can we just let it ride for a little longer?”
“Do we have a choice?” Her shapely eyebrows arch.
Summer smiles. “No.”
Mom smiles, too. A small one. “Let me think about it for a couple of days.” She sighs. “About logistics and all. I’ll talk to your doctor, I guess.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Summer gives her a kiss on the cheek.
FIFTY-NINE
With the blessings of Dr. Garnier and Mom, near her five-month sobriety date on a Saturday afternoon, Summer calls Aunt Liz. It’s nine hours earlier in San Francisco.
“Hi, sweetheart. How nice to hear your voice.” Aunt Liz sounds a little sleepy.
“Wait,” Summer says, looking at the clock. “I think I messed up the math. Don’t tell me it’s only six A.M.”
Her aunt laughs. “Okay. I won’t tell you that.”
Good work, Summer. She covers her face with her hand.
“You can call me at any hour. You know that.”
She and Liz get along great, but Summer doesn’t know how far it goes. And she’s about to ask her something big and hard, and it will really knock her stuffing out if Liz refuses.
Liz goes on, “I’m so sorry you’ve been having such a hard time. I’ve been keeping tabs, thanks to your mom. Did you get my messages?”
“Yes. Thank you for those. And for the cards and flowers. I just haven’t really called anyone back.”
“I understand. And you’re welcome. How are you, pumpkin?”
For the first time in weeks, a baseball-sized lump rises in Summer’s throat at the sound of Liz’s soft, concerned voice. She’s going on nineteen years old and she feels like a little child. She says as steadily as she can, “I guess better than I was.”
“You’re doing great from what I’ve heard.”
“Um.” Summer hesitates, then blurts out, “Can I come live with you for a while?”
Aunt Liz pauses. “Oh, I…”
Summer interrupts, “It’s okay, if not. I understand it’s a lot to ask.” Aunt Liz won’t say “suicide,” either. And who in their right mind wants a suicidal kid in their house? Even though she isn’t now.
“Summer,” Liz says firmly. “I’d love it. Nothing would make me happier.”
“Really?” Now Summer’s eyes fill. Funny how it’s kindness that slays her.
She’ll run one more time, to San Francisco.
“Of course. Your room is waiting. Your mom and I have already discussed the possibility. She’s graciously agreed.”
“I’d have to get set up with a shrink there and everything. And not fall off the wagon and all.”
“No problem. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“Thank you, Aunt Liz.”
SIXTY
Summer finally purchases a one-way ticket to San Francisco for June 20.
At her last session in Dr. Garnier’s wood-paneled, musty office, Dr. G leans back in her leather chair and asks, “Now that you have a departure date, how do you feel about leaving?”
“Petrified,” says Summer.
Dr. Garnier taps her pen on her notebook, a sure sign she’s pleased. “Could you elaborate?”
“I did want to leave Paris like I always wanted to leave a place. To escape my life. But now it’s different. In San Francisco, I have to find work, stay sober, go to school eventually, and all that stuff. I’m really worried about being able to pull if off.” She adds, “But I still think it’s a good move. And that I can do it.”
“Why do you think this?”
“Because I have to. I want to.” Summer focuses on the glass coffee table and the large book with all four of The Beatles’ faces on the cover.
Dr. G nods at her to keep going.
“And I do feel sad to leave here. Usually when I bolt, I don’t look back.” She crosses her arms and swallows hard. “The thing that really makes me sad … is Moony.”
“You’ve still had no communication with him?”
“No.” She squeezes her knuckles. “I know he’s okay because my mom talked to Karen.”
“Does he know you’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I told him in my last letter. And Mom told Karen. She’ll talk to my mom, but not to me.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Terrible! She’s a flipping witch.” Summer toes a tuft of the white shag carpet. Dr. Garnier looks at her indulgently, as if at an overwrought third-grader. “But I kind of understand how she feels. Plus, while she might toss out my letters, I doubt that she’s deleted my e-mail or text. Most likely, he just doesn’t want to answer.”
“Is he capable of answering?”
“I think so. He’s had two surgeries and his left arm is mended. He’s graduating this month with his class. I saw online that he’s planning a road trip through the US this summer with some old friend, so that’s good.” She clasps her hands beneath her chin. “But maybe that’s part of it. Even for Super Moony, things are hard right now. He needs to be more selfish. So, I’m glad.” She pauses. “And maybe he hates me.”
“Maybe he needs time. He likely has had to acknowledge the self-destructive part of himself.” Dr. Garnier crosses her s
tockinged legs. “You mentioned you sent letters? Texts and e-mails?”
“Five letters now, about one a month. Only one text and e-mail each, back in January.”
“How will you deal with his noncommunication?”
“I won’t, like, stalk him, but I’ll keep trying every month or so. I’ll let him know what’s going on with me anyway. If he tells me to stop, I will. It’s a little like Kentucky Morris. He’s gone, but his music isn’t.”
Dr. Garnier raises one eyebrow at her analogy. “You said earlier that this process is surprising you. How do you mean?”
“I expect to get better because I’m busting butt. It surprises me that it’s so slow. Some days I panic that I’m falling back apart. But I haven’t so far. And the next day is usually better.”
She taps her pen again. “What is different than before?”
Summer props her head in her hand, noting a whiff of ammonia glass cleaner. “I don’t know. That I was shocked out of my rut? Out of being suicidal?” She pauses. “What is it with suicide? Do all depressed people want to kill themselves?”
“No, thank goodness,” Dr. Garnier says. She shifts in her seat at the thought. “Most suicidal people are depressed. But most depressed people are not suicidal. It’s a small subset.”
“Oh.” Summer crosses her arms again. “What causes it? Being suicidal.”
“A number of factors contribute. One’s mental ‘wiring.’ And as I mentioned, almost always along with depression. She counts off on her fingers, starting with her thumb. “Isolation and/or lack of support. Any history of abuse or trauma, such as the loss of your father, especially coupled with a hostile social environment, so most recently your experience with the young man and his ‘cyber-bullying’ at St. Jude’s—these would all qualify.”
“Hmm.”
She pauses and looks Summer in the eye. “And substance abuse.”
Summer nods.
Dr. Garnier says quietly, “History of suicide within the family can also be a factor.”
“Yeah.” She folds her hands in her lap and stares at them. “I guess I did sort of know. Didn’t know it, exactly, but felt it.”
Dr. Garnier nods. “Children can be remarkably perceptive.”
“So you’re saying if I stay connected to family and friends, sober, and busy, I can be okay? Maybe a few meds?”
She smiles. “Along with an awareness of your predisposition, yes.”
“Okie-dokie. No sweat. Can I go now?”
The doctor looks at her watch. “Not yet.” She contemplates Summer. “What else changed for you? Why have you embraced this process now, and not before?”
“I realized that I truly wanted to live,” she says matter-of-factly, “but … that I need help.”
“Yes. How?”
“At that, um, moment, I knew I had to save Moony. I was the one who brought him to that awful point. But that Moony knew Kurt shocked me.”
“Go on.”
“He was more fragile than I thought, and it made me realize that everybody’s fragile, given the wrong circumstances, and that I was, and that I needed to get over myself, and freaking get help.”
Dr. G taps her pen on her notebook.
“Now I care, I guess.”
“Did you not, before?”
She looks at Dr. Garnier in exasperation. “No, I did. Care. Totally. Too much. I was so … overwhelmed, I guess.”
“Suicide is an attempt—a desperate, even blind one—to escape pain that’s become unbearable. We were not made to support the weight of the world alone, especially when damaged and depressed.”
“Right on.”
Dr. G smiles “Anything else?”
“I was drunk all the time, maybe a little stubborn? Now I’m focusing more outward, not inward? You tell me, doc. Wait.” Summer glances at The Beatles book and puts up a finger, “Don’t tell me. ‘All You Need Is Love.’ Right?”
“Mais oui. ‘I get by with a little help from my friends.’”
“You’ve helped me a bunch, Dr. G,” Summer says, grinning. Dr. Garnier’s a well-paid pseudo-friend, but she’s grateful all the same. Summer gives her an awkward hug before she leaves. “Merci beaucoup.”
SIXTY-ONE
Six months after the accident, Summer clears security at l’Aéroport de Paris-Charles-de-Gaulle and arrives early at the gate for her flight to San Francisco. She plops into a seat, takes a couple of “cleansing” breaths to relax the tension in her shoulders and neck, and puts in her earbuds.
She skips an old favorite Kentucky Morris song on her playlist and shuffles to a catchy, Bollywood-inspired dance hit from Scratchy Sponge Hearts. The slight tang of body odor lingers from whoever was sitting there before.
Out the massive window, a giant airbus taxis out to the runway while ground crews crisscross the tarmac between passenger buses, long strings of baggage carts, fuel and catering trucks. The sky’s a crystalline June blue above the curved modern lines of the airport.
Summer feels her phone buzz.
Two texts: one from Lila, her AA sponsor. And one from Mom.
Disappointment stings Summer. A tiny part of her is still hoping to hear from Moony. In her last letter she told him exactly when she was leaving. She’d give a front tooth for a Farewell, a whole digit for Safe travels.
She’ll keep sending letters until snail mail is phased out, or he tells her to stop.
Or he answers.
A girl can dream.
Lila’s text reads:
Bon voyage! One day …
“At a time,” Summer finishes. She smiles. Lila is another one who has helped her so much.
Mom’s says:
Proud of you. Text when you arrive no matter the hour. Kiss Aunt Liz. Big kisses for you xoxox Open card now.
Mom hovered the last months. She has no clue how to hover and tended heavily toward annoying. But Summer appreciated the attention.
They even started to talk about Dad; his death and his life.
She opens the card Mom gave her when they said good-bye. It’s an old black-and-white photo of some man. Underneath, it says, “Albert Camus: 1913–1960. French Algerian philosopher and author. Father of the absurd.”
She chuckles. An absurd guy named after their dog.
Inside the card is scrawled in Mom’s handwriting:
In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there is within me an invincible summer. —Albert Camus
Mom! Knock me over with a silver spoon.
Acknowledging and enjoying good moments like this has been an important part of her strategy lately. She’d love to share these words with someone, but there’s no one nearby except a fatigued-looking Indian businessman.
Gratitude is important, too. She texts back to Mom:
Thank you for everything, Mom. I love you. Invincible me.
She’s traveling alone—which she’s been doing since she was twelve years old—but this time feels different. A strange tightness has been squeezing her ribs and throat since she woke up this morning, and it’s getting worse.
What is it?
Leaving Paris? The parks in the city are full of geometrically arranged beds of vibrantly colored flowers. The days are infinitely long now and it doesn’t get truly dark until close to midnight. Summer solstice, and the all-night party that is la Fête de la Musique is tomorrow evening. She’s sorry to miss some soft version of it, and she and Paris are on better terms, but leaving is still the right thing to do.
Maybe it’s leaving Mom—after finally finding a semblance of a mother-daughter relationship. There’s a part of her that always felt homesick anyway when she left Mom’s or Aunt Liz’s, either one.
But no. It’s bigger than that.
Is it fear that she’ll fall apart again, tumble into that abyss of despair?
Always. But that’s not it either.
She used to have three speeds: stuck in despair, rage, or retreat. But if there is one thing she’s learned, it’s that she has to recognize and feel
scary sad or angry emotions. Jump right into the middle of them and swim around. Not freeze them away so that they pile up, hard and sharp, ready to crush her.
Gripping the armrests, she closes her eyes and concentrates.
This ache is not fear of despair. With all her might Summer suffers it and names it.
Moony.
Through bleary eyes, she stares out the airport glass wall, but pictures the sprawling city that’s just forty-five minutes south. Moony is there somewhere, probably in pain, but positively persevering.
She’s doing the same.
What’s absurd is that they’re doing it alone.
She was deluded to think he’d tell her to stop sending letters. He’s not going to say anything to her ever again. It’s okay. But she knows his schedule and routines and pictured him in his room as he recovered. As she hoped he recovered. Even though she got precious little information, through all her dreary days, and all her worry of how injured and messed up he was, she took great comfort that at least he was nearby.
Soon he’ll be half a world away.
It’s over. It was over already. She’s been holding on to that thin shred of hope for six months.
Summer’s hand flutters to her throat at the memory of their kiss. She can’t go there. Instead, she pictures him on the soccer field with the team, clipboard in hand, yelling encouragement as gold leaves swirl around him. Possibly, occasionally, thinking of her. Probably in exasperation.
Maybe, maybe, someday he can forgive her.
Closing her eyes again, she leans into that one hug at Moony’s apartment door: his wheaty scent laced with traces of Ariel laundry soap; his warmth and easy energy, as they stood at the nucleus of the twinkling city of Paris spreading out amebalike—moving, living, pulsing—around them and how the entire universe at that moment felt so perfect and infallible.
So right.
She buries her head in her hands.
Grief, gratitude, fear, and loneliness shoot off like fireworks as Summer’s heart cleaves in two.
